Remembering Sunday
by Avery Steele
Summary: My OC used in the fanfic Innocent Heart by Cloudyne, Lativia, and her story before said fanfic began.
1. Prologue: Listen

Reader, the first thing I must explain to you is that for a long period of time, Lativia Beauchamp has been missing from Central. Normally, Exorcists tend to stay close to their base, staying in contact. Lativia, however, enjoyed her new found freedom to travel, and after spending enough time collecting paychecks, she simply vanished from sight. Not a word was heard from her, and nobody had any idea at any given moment as to whether she was dead or alive.

One thing was for sure, though. She was loyal, and if she was alive and the Exorcists were in dire need of her help, she'd appear. Otherwise, she was nowhere to be seen. She became something like a fairytale or a legend. Her powers were not extraordinary, but she seemed to always know when they needed another Exorcist. Most new Exorcists considered Lativia Beauchamp, the sound Exorcist, to be nothing but a fable they told to New Exorcists to make them feel better. The more seasoned Exorcists know better, much, much, better.

Reader, we are now about to follow her story. I must warn you, this story will make you laugh, feel happy, and this story will make you cry. Now you can't complain when you feel brought down by her tragic tale. Now Reader, if you still wish to continue, taking all my warnings in consideration, please draw near as I tell you a story of courage, evil, and most of all – _love._


	2. Chapter One: Freedom

Chapter One: Freedom.

Reader, if you do not realize where you are, even with the neat cobblestone streets and chic Cafés littered along the streets, I will tell you – we are in Paris, France, and right over there is Lativia Beauchamp, who, if I'm not mistaken, is the main character of this particular tale. What? You don't see her?

Don't you see her, nestled in the outdoor patio of a quaint little cafe, sipping coffee with a biscotti lying, abandoned, on the small plate before her? Don't you see her long black hair, her shining golden eyes? Don't you see her expression, content as she let the warm breeze weave lazily through her hair?

Ah, you see her now. Good, that means we may now plunge deep into the story. Prepare, dear reader, for I warn you again – this is not a story for the faint of heart. I do not wish for you to get hurt, but this story is not nearly as effective when the emotions aren't used to twist and bend your heart until it breaks, for this is a story of what happens when one's heart is far too big, and their emotions far too strong.

Well then, let us delve deep into the story, shall we..

Lativia sighed as she sipped her latte. She had missed Paris dearly, even if she had lived in the darker side of it. It had been quite a few years since she had visited the place, and she had been anticipating her return for quite a while, now. She poked at the biscotti on her plate. They had been much better the last time she had been there, but what do you expect after three years? The place had changed owners and had become much flashier, too flashy for her taste.

At least the coffee was still good. She loved her coffee, it kept her up on long nights when she feared for her life if she dared fall asleep. It helped her fend for herself when she was cornered at midnight, or chased at two in the morning. It helped her survive.

She swiveled in her cheap plastic seat as she felt the sun beat down against her neck. She smiled as she remembered the good things – and the bad – that had happened to her here. They had helped mould her personality, and she doubted she'd be the same person otherwise.

Lativia sighed as she left enough to cover the bill, no less, no more. The coffee was good, but the biscotti was rather disgusting and left a stale taste in her mouth. The paltry excuse for a meal deserved no applause.

Her coattails snapped at her heels as she exited the café, via patio exit. The heel of her shoes clicked against the cobblestone road as she made her way down the street, leisurely if not at downright snail pace. She was pressured so often to move quickly in her job as an Exorcist that she felt the need to go as slow as she possibly could when she wasn't on a mission. She delightedly peered into the windows of the different shops - and oh, there were many, many shops. Consignment shops, Confectioneries, Bakeries, Perfume Emporiums, Boutiques. So many stores dedicated to the own different things, with only one thing in common – the delightfully addictive scent of Parisian air.

The shops slowly got shabbier as she pressed on, the cobblestones slowly falling out of place. The boutiques became general stores and the bakeries became grocery stores, until she finally reached the end of the road, the end of the shopping district and the beginning of her destination – the ghettos.

The area was small, and she knew it well. She knew each faceted knob on the scathed doors in the alleyway, every twist, turn – and most importantly – trap. She tread carefully, watching out for the cleverly marked cobblestones that would set of nets, darts and other unpleasant things. She passed door by door until she reached a door with the numbers '17' scrawled on the front in blood. A chill ran down her back as she placed her hand on the smooth doorknob and pushed her way into the tiny house. (She knew it had never possessed a lock.)

She looked around the room. By the door was a small wooden crate with various pieces of junk piled into it. Beside the crate was a tall coat rack, rusted and copper brown. There was a small wooden table in the middle of the one-room house, two rickety wooden chairs sitting on either side of it. Then, on the floor beside the table, lay a long red blanket, worn and ratty. These pieces of furniture, for lack of a better term, were mismatched and severely unkempt, though they all had one thing in common – a thin film of dust that covered everything in sight. _Thin _was the key word that put Lativia on her guard.

Someone had been cleaning here. Not very often, but _someone _had been at _her _house. This had been the house where she had lived with her neighbour, an old woman who lived by herself until she had arrived. Unfortunately, she had died a few years back, leaving the house in a dire state of uncleanliness. Someone had been into her house since then, and she had a bad feeling about this.

Then, she saw it – a tiny patchwork doll with a messily stitched mouth and her own black hair. It had beady black eyes and a simple purple dress. Memories rushed through her brain as she picked it up, gaping in wonder. It was her doll, one she had fashioned after her own appearance, going so far as to use her own hair. She turned it over and admired her handiwork, but then she noticed a small bald patch.

Someone had stolen her hair.

Lativia didn't like that.


End file.
